She doesn't know who I am or what my family name means to some people in the magical community. Moving to Magnolia Cove had hardly been an application at all—my father ensured it went through with one well-placed phone call. To Rachel, I'm just the jerk who swooped in and complicated her fundraising plans. The thought shouldn't make me smile, but it does. There's something satisfying about finally figuring out who Grant Pierce is, without my family's legacy shaping every move.
But as the sun sets and I watch her pack up her cart—her sales ledger considerably thinner than mine—I make a decision. I'll man the cart myself each day, rather than having my staff rotate shifts as planned. It's peaceful here, with the sun warming my shoulders and the rhythmic crashing of the waves providing nature's symphony. That's all it is—just business. It has nothing to do with monitoring my competition. And it definitely has nothing to do with how charming I find Ms. Williams' wrinkled nose and unabashed glares.
The breeze carries a hint of her last customer's snow cone—summer berries. I smile again.
This is why I chose Magnolia Cove. Not just as an escape from Willow Bay's suffocating social circles, but because there's something magical about this small town. The laid-back way everyone wears cork sandals and Crocs without a care for how others might judge their fashion choices. The locals who use their gifts without worrying about their social media trending metrics.
My phone buzzes again. This time, it's my sister, probably playing mediator as usual. I'll call her back later, once I've finished closing. Right now, I have reports to file, inventory to check, and a cart to clean until it gleams.
Everything in its proper place. Everything under control.
Even if I can still hear the drumming notes of Rachel Williams' fingers in my mind.
Rachel
The evening crowd at The Hungry Gull has long since dwindled to a steady handful of locals, leaving the clink of silverware and low murmur of conversation to fill the space. At last, Hazel's renowned key lime pie—thick and tangy with a perfect graham cracker crust—makes its grand entrance. I drum my fingers against the edge of my water glass, creating a restless rhythm that matches my mood.
"I smell like coconut sunscreen and failure," I announce with a sigh, allowing my forehead to thunk against the table’s worn linoleum. The gesture comes easy after a day full of hot sun, salty winds, and too many missteps. My braid, once neat and professional, now looks more like the aftermath of a seagull's nest on the run—a tangled, wild mess of strands after hours of resistance against the relentless sea breeze.
"At least you smell tropical," Zoe quips from across the booth. Her purple-streaked crown braid catches the evening light, the strands gleaming like rich amethyst. She settles back, stretching into our regular booth. "And your cart is cute! The hand-painted sign alone should bring in a crowd."
The Hungry Gull at this hour—just as the sun sinks below the horizon—holds a kind of charm I can never shake. The golden light spills through the dusty, chipped windows, casting long shadows on the worn floorboards and bathing the peeling walls in a soft, honeyed glow. It's a look of elegance marred by age, giving the place a timeless air. A slice of nostalgia hangs in the salty breeze. The ceiling fans overhead spin lazily, stirring the thick air that's seasoned with ocean salt as it pushes through the old wooden slats of the screened-in porch, where a few hopeful tourists—still clinging to the promise of a sunset—gaze at the sky, not yet willing to admit the storm’s arrival.
Our usual corner booth feels more like a nest tonight, surrounded by people I’ve known for years, too close and too familiar, but comfortable. It’s crowded with six of us jammed together as if we’re still teenagers instead of respectable(ish) adults. Tom's got his reading glasses perched atop his head, although he only needs them for the tiny font on baseball cards. Violet's pulled her silver-streaked hair into a messy bun that still speaks of a day spent helping her grandmother open the diner. Rhianna's sporting at least six different pins on her denim jacket, each one catching the light when she gestures. My favorite today is the one that says Bibliophile and Proud—a pin that, frankly, is an understatement. Meanwhile, Mia, tucked between Rhianna and Zoe, keeps shooting me worried glances from behind the safety of the dessert menu she's memorized front to back after all our years of post-book-club pie sessions.
"Remember when we used to come here after band practice?" Mia asks suddenly. "All of us crammed into this same booth, still in uniforms…"
"Stealing each other's french fries and complaining about that impossible section of the halftime show?" Violet adds, twirling her fork.
"Speaking of impossible…" Rhianna grins. "Remember when Tom tried to do travel baseball and marching band our senior year? Like some kind of superhuman teenager?"
"Hey, I pulled it off!" Tom sets his bite of pie down. "Though Coach never understood why I had to miss warm-ups to actually participate in the band."
"And you never got injured. That's it—you're an alien," Rhianna declares. "Normal humans can't march with a tuba and pitch a perfect game in one weekend."
"The tuba was strategic," Tom says. "It was the only instrument big enough to hide my baseball glove behind during parade formation."
"God, those band trips though." Violet sighs contentedly. "Remember that time we got lost in Charleston and ended up discovering that amazing cookie place?"
"Or when Rhianna's clarinet case popped open on the bus and we had to hunt down all the pieces?" Mia elbows Rhianna, who rolls her eyes.
"Or that competition where we all got food poisoning but still performed!" Zoe laughs. "Somehow, we won first place too!"
"Hey, you picked that pizza place." Violet throws her straw wrapper at Zoe. "I told you it was suspicious."
"That's because we all had each other's backs," I whisper, looking around at my friends. "Just like we always have."
"Which is why this program can't end," Tom says firmly. "Every kid deserves a chance to find their people like we did."
"Maybe if they could see my cart past the chrome monstrosity that is Grant Pierce's ice cream empire, I'd sell more snow cones." I accept the slice of pie Violet slides my way. "Did you know his family owns some fancy chain? Grammie Rae says they're basically ice cream royalty."
"Pierce & Sons," Mia confirms, tucking a strand of caramel hair behind her ear. "They're huge in California. Very…" She pauses diplomatically. "Prestigious."
"Very stuck-up is what you mean," Zoe corrects, earning an affectionate eye roll from her wife.
"They do take themselves awfully seriously." Mia twirls her straw through her ice water. "Like they're selling fine art instead of ice cream."
"Speaking of taking things seriously…" Tom takes a sip of his coffee—black, no sugar, just like the noir mysteries he's always trying to get us to read for book club when he isn't joining Rhianna in a crusade for increasingly spicy reads. "Maybe we should pick something lighter next month. A romance, perhaps?"
